


pick up and start again

by oddmoonlight



Category: Blur
Genre: M/M, idiot boys being idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 15:02:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11015841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddmoonlight/pseuds/oddmoonlight
Summary: Damon and Graham spend a rare night off doing nothing in particular.





	pick up and start again

**Author's Note:**

> and if you wanna call me up or come over  
> come on, we'll laugh 'till we cry  
> like we did when we were kids  
> cause we can't keep holding on to grudges
> 
> —grudges, paramore

“Damo. Damoooooo. _Damooooooooo_.”

“Yes, darling dearest?”

“You smell fucking awful. Like an ashtray. _Ashhhhtray_ ,” Graham responded, slurring the word as a whole in a poor imitation of proper speech. He had never sounded so fascinated in his life. Damon withheld from clocking him— just barely.

“And you smell like a pub toilet after last call.”

Which, technically, is where they’d been together in what was likely a grave mistake. Graham, the perpetually recovering alcoholic, should technically not be this drunk. Not since their wild teenage days of revelry and prolonged suffering, hand in hand, really. They’d gone out on a total whim on a free night when, surprisingly, neither of them had a gig or a talk or a chat show to turn up to. The ten odd years sober coin Graham had gotten from AA was lost somewhere on the rooftop’s plaster floor, rolling free of his back jean pocket. At the moment, neither of them cared. Graham, because he was much too far gone, and Damon, because he was transfixed with a blinking star-satellite hybrid currently reflected in the fingerprint-smudged surface of Graham’s glasses.

“Damo. You’re… you’re starin’ again. All moony an' shit,” the man in question slurred after a moment of gleefully kicking his feet from where they dangled off the side of the roof. It didn’t help that the ever deepening grey streak in his hair also caught the light of the sky above. “Hellooooo in there. Earth to Damon Albarn.”

Finally composing himself, Damon blinked hard enough to send pinprick colors dancing behind his eyelids, self-consciously ruffling his own scruffy haircut. Getting lost in an inner musical composition was a real problem— always had been for him— especially when songwriting material presented itself on a proverbial silver platter. He grinned his biggest, toothiest (or, suffice to say, lack of toothiest) beaming grin, the one that made him look like a Dickensian street urchin, just to watch Graham cackle in delight. Perfect.

They were quiet for a while then. Muscle memory familiar gestures were loud enough to fill the gaps. It was impossible to say who wound their pinkies together, who leaned their head against the other’s wiry shoulder. Who complained about an aching back, or having to take the crowded train to work the next day. Eventually, when Graham’s whiskey high died down, he sheepishly drew out his vape pen. Damon didn’t hesitate for a second in relentlessly mocking the sight of a newly sour looking Graham. ( _It’s better than that nasty shite you smoke! I’ll be having the last laugh when I’m old and gray for longer than you are!_ ) Another long few minutes. A distant car alarm.

“Everything’s rotting in this world. Not you.”

Graham sniffed idly, before responding without a second thought: “If you make that the hook of another song dedicated to me, I’ll smash your goddamn melodica over your inflated head before your legions of shrieking teeny bopper fans.”

The ensuing scuffle was less of a knock down, drag out, old days fight, and more of a limp-wristed wrestling match, with Damon very intentionally ending up with a loss. Graham held him splayed out on his back across the concrete, praying that no idle paparazzi were hiding out in nearby helicopters or bushes. Panting, out of breath, Damon’s adam’s apple bobbed with a thick swallow, blues blown an almost drug-induced wide.

“You canny whore,” Graham breathed incredulously, chest heaving. It was not so much an insult as an observation. The accused’s response: an enthused nod and a pointed wriggling of pinned hips. It would be so easy, especially for Damon, to flash back immediately to their younger years. Of playing amongst the grass as kids in Colchester, the constant back and forth in their formative years as a band. Smashed bottles against walls and raised voices, and times when having a drunk, entirely more belligerent Graham pinning him fast to the ground would have been a terrifying prospect. Now, with a gentle breeze blowing about them, Damon wouldn't situate himself anywhere but in murmuring soft against his mouth.

Well, after:

“Gra. Gra. You taste like a sixteen year old who didn’t know not to drink the bong water.”

Graham had to rest his head against the concrete to keep from shaking with laughter enough to topple over.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! This was just a short thing I popped out since I've been recently getting into Blur. Longtime lurker, never posted fic before. Might go multi-chapter with this if people like it. Comments and kudos appreciated!


End file.
